Russian Roulette
by Shan at Warblerland
Summary: Based on CP Coulter's "Dalton" - Pairing: Logan/Julian. Julian knows just enough to win one game. But it was one he was supposed to lose. Warning: death


**Title**: Russian Roulette  
**Pairing**: Light (Logan/Julian)  
**Notes**: Involves Julian's stalker. Kind of unrealistic, this one, but it was something that won't leave me alone. Also, Dark. Reallydark. (At least by my standards.) Proceed at your own risk.

_Logan Wright and Julian Larson and the Daltonverse plotline are from CP Coulter's "Dalton"._

* * *

This was the problem with knowing too much.

In this case, he'd seen so many fake guns in his life on sound-stages and movie sets and prop rooms that he knew a real one when he saw it.

He knew when it was loaded, he knew when it was cocked, he knew when it was ready to launch a projectile that could, in less than a second, smash into a lung, or the heart, or another organ necessary for life.

He even knew when a revolver was likely to fire. He really did.

Maybe it was because he'd seen his father's own way back before he divorced his mother, the beautiful actress who, at the time, was going through rehab. He'd seen the gun in his father's drawer. His father talked to him about it, about each part, about what it did, and that it was meant to protect them in the house.

He had taken it so many times that he knew when there was a bullet in the chamber. His dad had been fascinated instead of worried. They played this game—not for real, of course—where his dad would place a rubber bullet in the cylinder, spin it, and then slip the cylinder back in. And then, with the gun pointing downward where it was safe, give it to him, and ask if he thought the gun would fire.

He was right nearly all the time. Not all the time, but enough times for it to be reliable.

So that was his problem. He knew too much.

He knew exactly how to win the game.

But winning was the problem.

Julian slowly raised his eyes and met Logan's green ones. The Smith and Wesson lay between them on the table. The gun that was not a revolver—that black Glock, was leveled almost steadily at Logan's temple.

The gun to Logan's head was the reason Julian didn't have to be tied down to the chair. The psychopath holding the gun knew that Julian wasn't going to move an inch from that chair while the gun was at Logan's head.

The stalker knew that Julian would play, and so would Logan.

Because Logan would play to save Julian—wasn't that the reason he pursued when he saw Julian being grabbed?—and because Julian would play to save Logan's life.

It was a fifty-fifty chance, in a way. They could either end up killing each other, or the psycho holding the gun would end Logan immediately. And the stalker knew full well that Julian would rather play than let _that_gun fire.

The game was easy.

A bullet was in the cylinder. Each time one of them would take the gun and it wouldn't fire, they got to spin the cylinder again.

To make it last longer, the stalker said. It wouldn't be any fun if it was just letting them count down to the inevitable. It's the suspense that was fun. It was the chance that one of them would spin it just right to be fully responsible for the other's end that was fun.

It would be so much fun that the stalker assured him that whoever stays alive would be released immediately. Only one person could die, after all.

If Logan died, Julian would be set free. Easy enough to keep that promise to the one he loved so much.

If Julian died, the stalker would end his (or her, he couldn't tell) own life. How could the dear lunatic live if fate proved that Julian was never destined to live? There was also only one shot in the Glock. The stalker would use it on his or her own head if Julian just happened to die. And Logan would be free.

It's not a complicated game. All it took was a single bullet.

So Julian had opted to go first.

The stalker said okay.

In the time when he played the game with rubber bullets with his dad, Julian learned a new trick. He knew exactly how to spin the cylinder and slip it back in just enough to make sure that the bullet didn't end up at the right spot. He knew how to make sure it was empty.

So he could play. He could play for as long as he possibly wanted without the gun shooting. He could tread life and death quite easily in this game. Impressive, for a spoiled primadonna, he always thought.

He wasn't going to kill Logan. There was no way in this green earth that he would land that bullet in the right spot to kill Logan.

He took the gun, spun it, and handed it to Logan. He stared intently at the green eyes in a way that he knew Logan would recognize. That it was okay.

Neither his stalker nor Logan knew what he could do—that he knew too much, that he could win the game.

No one did.

Just him.

He felt like a little god, deciding the game before it even began. The revolver was a bad idea, really, for his stalker. He wished that he played that person instead. It would've been over in a single turn.

But it was never that easy.

It never was.

Julian took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment as Logan took the revolver and took forever to pull the trigger—so long that the Glock pressed to his head.

The Smith and Wesson clicked emptily, just like Julian knew it would. Their abductor laughed. It was interesting already.

Logan looked as though he was going to collapse, but held himself up. Shaking, he spun the cylinder, put it back in, and laid the gun on the table.

The dark eyes that held the Glock turned to Julian now. And he reached out to pick the gun up from the table.

Empty. He knew that much. Keeping his eyes trained intently on Logan, he raised the revolver to his head. He pulled the trigger in under five seconds. It clicked—empty.

Logan shook visibly, sinking a little onto the table on his elbows.

Julian spun the cylinder again, sure it was empty as he placed the gun to the middle of the table again. He looked steadily at Logan, who no doubt must've found him so cold in such a dire moment.

This game—this terrible game—lasted on. It was about twenty minutes in when Logan pulled the trigger for the fourth time to an empty chamber. Their abductor must have made some comment about how someone up there must like Logan a whole lot.

Julian didn't hear it.

Because he knew the gun was set to fire the moment Logan laid it down on the table again.

He stared at the gun.

This was the problem with knowing too much.

You knew the very moment in the game when you lose.

Julian didn't move to pick up the gun, and when he lifted his eyes to Logan, he must've known something was wrong. His green eyes flickered confusion for a moment.

That was when Julian looked trained his eyes at him, and for the first time, gave him the very smallest flicker of a smile—one that didn't reach his eyes.

And Logan knew.

Julian wished he was allowed to talk. He wanted to tell him so many things before he picked up this gun.

He wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to tell him that he looked like Christmas came early when he saw him for the first time at Freshman Orientation. That he ran back to Dalton because he couldn't stay away from him no matter how much it would hurt to have him bypassed again. That he meant everything to him.

He wanted to tell him everything.

But he could only smile so slightly as he picked up the revolver, and watched the color drain from Logan's face as he began to understand why Julian looked so sad, why tears misted his eyes so suddenly.

Julian wished his eyes could tell him what his lips couldn't.  
_  
__I love you. I really do._

Logan took a breath—maybe it was to scream.

Julian closed his eyes, the metal barrel cold on his temple, like the day he walked out of Stuart House intending to leave Logan forever. The biggest mistake of his life was that act of selfishness.

He wasn't going to make a mistake again now.

And he pulled the trigger.


End file.
